The splendid isolation I have  sought has crumbled. I need Grimnebulin, Grimneulin needs his friend, his friend needs succour from us all. It is simple mathematics to cancel common terms and discover that I need succour, too. I must offer it to others, to save myself.

I am stumbling. I must not fall.

—China Miéville, Perdido Street Station

Sitting in my hotel room, I stop thinking about the eggs Benedict at the cafe across the street. My eyes linger on things close to me: the Doric shaft of the lamp on the table, its patina of spatterings. A label on the base says: 120V 60Hz 5 Amps Max. The auxiliary electrical outlet is upside-down, perhaps to confuse me into reading the accompanying text.

I force my eyes to walk around the room, and they wander through the bedroom doorway. The jerking shadow of a tree branch on the white curtains still drawn startles me. I cannot hear the wind moving.

Second, a method call always involves a dispatch strategy, where the object system selects the appropriate method. Given the simplicity of Cat, the dispatch strategy is obvious, but much of the power of OO comes from this idea. Inside a method, its first argument is the invocant. Idiomatic Perl 5 uses $self as its name. Suppose a Cat can meow():

package Cat
{
    sub meow
    {
        my $self = shift;
        say 'Meow!';
    }
}

Now all Cat instances can wake you up in the morning because they haven’t eaten yet:

my $fuzzy_alarm = Cat->new();
$fuzzy_alarm->meow() for 1 .. 3;

Cats are something I understand. Now if only I could so easily reprogram my own fuzzy alarm….

At this point I was convinced he wanted something from me, but I looked up from my book, and into his eyes for the first time, and we began to talk. It went very nearly like this.

I said, “Well, it’s actually not my normal fare. I mean, it’s good writing, but the story—”
“What’s your normal stuff, then? What you usually read.”
“Science fiction. Lots and lots of science fiction.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that? Like, what kind of books? Which ones?”
“Well, have you ever read the Dune series, by Frank Herbert?”
“I’m not sure. Yeah, I think so. I think I did.” (Here I could not quell my smile.)
“Check it out. I guarantee it’ll treat you well.”

We were above ground by this point, and discovered to our mutual pleasure that we were serendipitously walking in the same direction. (West on Girard Ave from Broad St., for those interested.) Something else was said, and I asked him where he went to school. He lifted up his jacket, which he wore unzipped, and showed me the emblem on his shirt.

“HOPE. It’s a charter school.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”
“Man, it sucks there. It’s a terrible school. I got all As and Bs, but it’s not hard. I’m in the highest grade—well, not the highest grade—I’m in ten—but they just go over the same stuff all the time. For everybody else, it’s like they don’t get it or something. Maybe it’s because most of them smoke weed.”

Yes, there’s likely an association there, I said. I told him to stick to his studies. I started in talking about work—I’m that person, all of a sudden—and gave him some stories about adults I know who have spent too much time with drugs and regretted it, and are only now going back to get a GED, at 35 or 45. That seemed to validate his perspective, and he smiled at me.

I said, “Don’t ever stop learning. When I was little, I read a lot. My mom worked a lot when I was little, so I would read. She’d come home, pretty tired, of course, and I’d ask her about some words. I wanted to know what they meant. Every time, she told me the same thing: ‘Look it up!’ Every time!”
“She wouldn’t tell you? Really?”
“Yeah. But she was right, because now I feel like the only mistake I haven’t made is being sure that everything—that thing over there, or this, whatever—is learnable. I can learn that. I can learn this. You know?”
“Yeah. Sometimes, like if I’m at the library or something, I like to sit there and just think. I don’t always read, sometimes I just listen to music and think.”
“It seems to me that very many people are terrified of situations where all they can do is think. Sometimes people structure their life in activities so that they don’t have to think, and when they’re confronted with a situation where thinking is all they can do, they get scared. No one personality flaw hinders a person more than this, but everybody has it! It’s just a matter of when you shed it. I don’t know, but it seems to me like maybe you shed it a while ago.”

It was around this time that we’d reached an intersection where he needed to turn, and he asked for my “card.” I laughed and said that I had none, but that I’d happily share my email address with him. I did so, and he thanked me. He said he knew someone with my name who went to another high school in Philadelphia. I said I thought that was cool.

Learning is something I’ve never figured out. I am a laggard, a loafer, and an idiot.

I want to be dragged across life like a messy paintbrush. Knowing you, you might scoff or smile at my using passive voice there, but I don’t think stars or quarks worry about where they are going in life, and from what I can tell, they’re having a hell of a time.

Some day I’ll have children, and I’ll pray. My hope is that my son will hold an ear of corn all afternoon, turning it over and over in his hands, deciding with every breath to wonder more.

This evening I harbor the suspicion that there are wanderers, and wonderers, and wandering wonders: the widening gyre. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll wake at dawn to discover the first midden heap, the anchor, the memory. But I doubt it.

My mind is open, my lips are parted, but my heart is lost in some deep wood.

Someday I might know why rain makes me feel old. Now, I hide from the knowledge.

The day we understand is the day we die.

After a grueling medley of jobs stretching through last summer and on into the fall, things have been settling down. I’ve started working as a computer instructor. At one job, during the day, I teach computer literacy in a recovery program. The individuals to whom I teach at this job vary widely in skill level; some people have never used a mouse before, whereas others are proficient with office applications already. It’s a job that requires a lot of adaptation, patience, and love of learning. Being present for someone’s first Google search has been one of the most illuminating experiences of my life—compellingly, far more so than my own first Google search!

My life-long dream of being an educator is slowly materializing. The opportunities to teach are frequent and meaningful. Already I’m working on projects to expand the programs I’m working in, so that we’ll be teaching a far broader scope of material to a great number of people.

In my free time, I’m tackling an unprecedented number of personal projects. In the past few months, I’ve written several utile Python scripts to get work done around the house, so to speak, and I’m back on the horse with improving my guitar technique. After a few more weeks, I should be ready to start sharing the fruits of these labors on this blog, like I used to in the good old days.

All in all, I have never felt so at home.

The doormat my lovely girlfriend bought for me on my birthday

(See the Flickr page for story of the doormat.)

“Well, you brought some magic into that little life,” said Albert, as the next child was hurried away.
It’s the expression on their little faces I like, said [Death].
“You mean sort of fear and awe and not knowing whether to laugh or cry or wet their pants?”
Yes. Now that is what I call belief.

Indeed!

And yes, this meme is the ultimate meme just like 2010 will be the YoLD. Mark my words.

via Linux Hater’s Blog

Laptop:

ragnarok@DragonBoat:~$ vrms

Not too shabby, if I do say so myself.

White people! White people have all kinds of ridiculous gadgets and toys in their kitchen. They’ve got 16 different knives, an eggbeater, a slicer, a dicer, a cheese grater, and all kinds of other wacky shit. My dad has one (1) big fuckoff cleaver, and chopsticks.

What can white people make in their kitchens that my dad can’t? Grits?

I found this both incredibly humorous—particularly because it was in my apartment a few weeks ago that he pointed to the Ikea knives in the Ikea knife holder on the Ikea butcher’s block and said, essentially, that he wasn’t in Kansas anymore—and quite accurate.

In Taiwan, every form of food I ingested was cooked with nothing more than:

1. A bowl
2. A wooden stick
3. A metal cutter

How is this possible? Obviously the paradox of choice and maximization of individual freedom so intrinsic to American consumer culture play a big role in this, but maybe also it’s that Chinese culinary accoutrements have merely been refined over millennia. There’s an efficiency implicit in the—excuse the misnomer—Spartan, function-over-form aesthetic of the Chinese kitchen.

Clearly, then, while both Chinese and Americans might be said to place great weight in the skill of a chef, the former would almost certainly define “skill” as a learned ability, whereas the latter might pay more attention to the pomp and circumstance around the person.

Perhaps I’m making drastic leaps of logic, but stay with me. Entertain the possibility that the above is correct, if only because it’s so contradictory to certain research that claims Chinese pay more attention to context than Americans.

When you look at the picture on the computer screen at right, where do your eyes linger longest? Surprisingly, the answer to that question might differ depending upon where you were raised. Americans stare more fixedly at the train in the center, while Chinese let their eyes roam more around the entire picture, according to research by psychologist Richard Nisbett, PhD.

Interesting, no?

At the start of the shift, around 6PM or so, someone walks in who is clearly a metalhead. The place is rather dead, so I’m pleased, as I suspect he might sit down for a beer, and we’ll get to have a chat. (Yes, sometimes it’s the bartender who’s dying for company.) To my chagrin, he wants only change for the meter. I acquiesce.

Later that same day, around 11PM or so, he walks back in the door. I walk over to the register, thinking he needs more change, but this time he heads for the fridge and pulls out three bottles of Heineken. Says that’ll be all. I ring him up, and while stuffing the bills in the drawer, ask him, “Where are you coming from?”

This question made a lot of sense, because there’s a venue just up the block from the bar, and when shows are over, the bar I work for typically gets overflow. I wanted to know which band this guy had chosen to see.

He misunderstood the nature of the question, however—damn present progressive tense!—and answered me in an adorable Swedish accent, “From Sweden, actually.”

“Oh, really? That’s awesome, man. What kind of music are you into?”
“Well, you know… metal, mostly.”
“Awesome. What kind of metal, though? I mean, if it’s from Sweden, it’s probably melodic death metal or something, right?”
“Yes! Yes, it is! Melodic death metal, yes. Actually, I play in a band.”
“Cool, man! What do you guys sound like?”
“Um… have you ever heard of Arch Enemy?”
“Ha, yeah, man! That’s awesome. Do you guys have a website?”
“Er… yes.”
“Great! Write it down for me, I’d love to hear your guys’ stuff.”

It was at this point that he writes carefully, deliberately, in all lowercase letters, arch enemy, and then excuses himself to piss.

I’m standing there, staring at this slip of paper, reading “arch enemy” over and over again upside-down, trying to piece this together. Maybe he thought I wanted to know the name of the more famous band? No. Maybe they’re a cover band! But with the same name, instead of some lame pun? Unlikely.

Then his girlfriend walks in and stands near the register, waiting for him to come back. As comprehension percolates through my mind, I grip the edge of the bar.

“Who was that?”
“That? That was just Chris.”
“WHAT IS HIS LAST NAME?”
“Amott. Chris Amott.”

This is the moment in the movie when the woman, wearing a corset, swoons. Fortunately, I had left my corset at home that day, and so was able to soldier on through consciousness despite my absolute certainty that the universe was playing tricks on me. I swear there was a second when I entertained the Lovecraftian suspicion that I had fallen asleep at the bar, was already fired, and merely dreaming of meeting Chris Amott.

When he came out of the bathroom, I nearly attacked him, shook his hand, told him I’d been listening to his riffs since I was a kid. All in all, I played it about as far from cool as a guy can get. I even mentioned that our bar was having an open mic night on Wednesday—he laughed, flattered, and his girlfriend poked him, meaningfully—but he didn’t come.

He did, however tip me a dollar.

\m/

The etymology of “redemption”

I can’t help but look at a word’s older meanings when trying to understand the concept it represents. Without cultural (i.e. sociohistorical) context, any word is flat and drab. In this particular case, I’m tempted to think of coupons, rather than souls or minds, if I don’t bother to think etymologically. Picking apart the Latin construction, we get two basic parts:

1. re(d)-, an extremely common Latin prefix meaning essentially “again” or “back to the original place”
2. emere, a Latin verb meaning “to buy,” itself consisting of the prefix e(x)-, meaning “out of,” and merere, “to deserve” (cf. English “merit”). ((See entry for “exempt” at EtymOnline.)) Together, then, as emere, it means “that which is earned.”

It seems, then, that redemption is a later purchase, the delayed derivation of value. And this makes a hell of a lot of sense. ((Interestingly enough, Exodus 21:8 uses the word to refer to the buying back of slaves!))

The philosophy of “redemption”

My latest realization in this line of thought, by which I mean the understanding of suffering, is that I’ve been searching for a Grand Unified Theory of Belief. Much like how comparative mythology fascinates me by pointing out isomorphisms in folklore across significant cultural boundaries, theology is interesting to me only in the singleness of its various forms. It sounds obtuse, irreverent far beyond the point of atheism, to say of the multiplicity of religious belief in the world, “It’s all the same.” But often, that’s precisely how I feel.

One of the most important themes in understanding redemption, in my mind, is that of return. There is progress, yes—much like the “If you can get through it. If you can endure it all the way” philosophy ((See the previous post, an excerpt from Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed.))—a progress that implies deviation and therefore growth. But more important than that, there is an eventual homecoming, a point at which the wayfarer returns to the point of departure, and discovers in the process that home is everywhere. (At the risk of sounding didactic, please remember that Daoism’s 道 means “way” or “path”.)

Circles, arcs, bends, and loops

It seems to me that this discussion of redemption, while certainly encompassing broad swaths of philosophy and theology, is mostly a messy stew of linguistics and numerology, of geometry and divination. This is unfortunate in terms of ease of understanding, but fortunate in terms of fun.

All the curvatures listed above (viz. circles, arcs, bends, and loops) can be understood in different ways, specifically as referring to space (e.g. arc) or time (e.g. loop). This is an expected byproduct of the spatiotemporalization so common in Western cultures, and consequently seen throughout the English language. For the sake of clarity, I’ll define each curvature according to its use in the present argument. ((There is nothing remotely mathematical about these definitions. They were made up and hammered into shape specifically for the sake of this discussion. As such, they might differ considerably from their more traditional forms.))

1. circle: A process or concept exhibiting unity, whether spatial or temporal, in form or function
2. arc: Progress whose path indicates transverse velocity (i.e. the presence of any vector both nonidentical to, and acting upon, the initial trajectory)
3. bend: Permutation to an otherwise straight trajectory which introduces curvature, thereby increasing the distance traveled (i.e. path) in a discrete but nonlinear fashion
4. loop: A reiterating process exhibiting a constant semantic structure which varies only in its temporal displacement

The confluence of these shapes and concepts forms the path to redemption.

The circle, as an entity both spatial and temporal, is the recognition of the illusion of difference. The presence of infinity in the recursive symmetry of the circle is a mark of divinity. The absolute oneness of the circle approaches nonness, yet cannot reach it in its silence.

The arc is often the straightest path possible. It represents the presence of plural forces in the structuring of the path, the eternal inertia of past direction, even after the future path has been chosen. A well crafted arc is beautiful and efficient, a joyous yet purposed teleological ride.

The bend is a change in the path. It can turn a line into an arc, or a circle into an ellipse. It is the purposeful modification of real elements in order to arrive at a finite future. Over time, a bend can be thought of as periodicity or oscillation in a waveform.

The loop is a careful reconsideration of an attempt, amounting essentially to “How about now?” The attempt must work at some point. Given the constant restructuring of the path, the loop constitutes stored memory. It can reattach to the past, and thereby affect the future.

Spirals, helices, vortices, and circles

Now, further spatialization of the already temporal concepts discussed here yields new concepts ripe for our understanding. If 道 is to be understood as a 1-dimensional component to redemption, i.e. the path (or line), then the previous section detailed the 2-dimensional constructs of the system. This section deals with the 3-dimensional concepts of redemption.

Of course, 道 differs substantially from a mere 1-dimensional line; its quality of a path mandates consideration in terms of at least two dimensions, to include time with direction, resulting in progress and perspective. And certainly at least “loop” from the 2-dimensional category above demands time, and therefore that list can be understood as consisting of 3-dimensional objects. By the same logic, the concepts discussed in this section could be seen as either 3- or 4-dimensional paths. (This will be the last time this dimensional transformation is carried out.)

Enter the definitions.

1. spiral: Curve  originating at a central point, around which it revolves and from which it grows progressively more distant; notably passes through same radii again and again, but at different and discrete points each time
2. helix: A 3-dimensional curve congruent with a corresponding circle on two axes; essentially a circle with an “activated” third (z-) axis
3. vortex: A 3-dimensional curve congruent with a corresponding spiral on two axes; essentially a spiral with an “activated” third (z-) axis
4. circle: A 3-dimensional progression functionally constant on two axes; the most constant of all shapes and thoughts, even more so than a line, given that the circle revisits space in displaced time

And the expanded discussion.

The spiral remembers but diverges. Its progress in difference is fueled by fear of the past, by the yearning to change. In its excellence in a single plane, it is blind to, and therefore bound by, infinitely more.

The helix remembers and honors. Even in its adherence to tradition, however, it cannot help but evolve: it continually remakes itself in its own image, or in the image of the thought which preceded it. Nevertheless, it excels in only a single dimension, and remains bound in two.

The vortex, for all its striving, is trapped in its aspiration. It is defined by the nature of the progress it once made, and perpetuates the sins of its father, which it long ago became.

The circle in three dimensions contains the potential to rewrite itself. ((Cf. death code, Oroborus.)) It exhibits loyalty and purpose, fidelity to the ineffable cause of self without context: Monism. ((Cf. Einheit, zⁿ = 1, ت(وحيد), 一神教.))

The spiral remembers and wanders. Wandering can be ordered.

The helix remembers honor. It is resolute, like a crystal lattice. Its strength and eternity allows for change outside itself: within.

The vortex cannot consume its origin.

Shapes, lines, times, and rhymes. The indivisible is invisible. The effort serves; having made it through, we are both younger and older.

We cannot go back. Nevertheless, we must try.

The backstory for this excerpt is that a Marxist revolution (called in this book an “Odonian” revolution) led to the forced exile of the revolutionaries by the dominant political forces of the planet. After the establishment of the colony on the moon, all contact with the planet was severed, and no communication passed between the two civilizations for over a hundred years. In this excerpt, the protagonist Shevek discusses how good can come of their suffering in exile.

(Please note that the typo “principal” for “principle” is not an error in my transcription, but rather preserved from my edition of the book.)

“Suffering is a misunderstanding,” Shevek said, leaning forward, his eyes wide and light. He was still lanky, with big hands, protruding ears, and angular joints, but in the perfect health and strength of early manhood he was very beautiful. His dun-colored hair, like the others’, was fine and straight, worn at its full length and kept off the forehead with a band. Only one of them wore her hair differently, a girl with high cheekbones and a flat nose; she had cut her dark hair to a shiny cap all round. She was watching Shevek with a steady, serious gaze. Her lips were greasy from eating fried cakes, and there was a crumb on her chin.

“It exists,” Shevek said, spreading out his hands. “It’s real. I can call it a misunderstanding, but I can’t pretend that it doesn’t exist, or will ever cease to exist. Suffering is the condition on which we live. And when it comes, you know it. You know it as the truth. Of course it’s right to cure diseases, to prevent hunger and injustice, as the social organism does. But no society can change the nature of existence. We can’t prevent suffering. This pain and that pain, yes, but not Pain. A society can only relieve social suffering, unnecessary suffering. The rest remains. The root, the reality. All of us here are going to know grief; if we live fifty years, we’ll have known pain for fifty years. And in the end we’ll die. That’s the condition we’re born on. I’m afraid of life! There are times I—I am very frightened. Any happiness seems trivial. And yet, I wonder if it isn’t all a misunderstanding—this grasping after happiness, this fear of pain. . . . If instead of fearing it and running from it, one could. . . get through it, go beyond it. There is something beyond it. It’s the self that suffers, and there’s a place where the self—ceases. I don’t know how to say it. But I believe that the reality—the truth that I recognize in suffering as I don’t in comfort and happiness—that the reality of pain is not pain. If you can get through it. If you can endure it all the way.”

“The reality of our life is in love, in solidarity,” said a tall, soft-eyed girl. “Love is the true condition of human life.”

Bedap shook his head. “No. Shev’s right,” he said. “Love’s just one of the ways through, and it can go wrong, and miss. Pain never misses. But therefore we don’t have much choice about enduring it! We will, whether we want to or not.”

The girl with short hair shook her head vehemently. “But we won’t! One in a hundred, one in a thousand, goes all the way, all the way through. The rest of us keep pretending we’re happy, or else just go numb. We suffer, but not enough. And so we suffer for nothing.”

“What are we supposed to do,” said Tirin, “go hit our heads with hammers for an hour every day to make sure we suffer enough?”

“You’re making a cult of pain,” another said. “An Odonian’s goal is positive, not negative. Suffering is dysfunctional, except as a bodily warning against danger. Psychologically and socially it’s merely destructive.”

“What motivated Odo but an exceptional sensitivity to suffering—her own and others’?” Bedap retorted.

“But the whole principal of mutual aid is designed to prevent suffering!”

Shevek was sitting on the table, his long legs dangling, his face intense and quiet. “Have you ever seen anybody die?” he asked the others. Most of them had, in a domicile or on volunteer duty. All but one had helped at one time or another to bury the dead.

“There was a man when I was in camp in Southeast. It was the first time I saw anything like this. There was some defect in the aircar engine, it crashed lifting off and caught fire. They got him out burned all over. He lived about two hours. He couldn’t have been saved; there was no reason for him to live that long, no justification for those two hours. We were waiting for them to fly in anesthetics from the coast. I stayed with him along with a couple of girls. We’d been there loading the plane. There wasn’t a doctor. You couldn’t do anything for him, except just stay there, be with him. He was in shock but mostly conscious. He was in terrible pain, mostly from his hands. I don’t think he knew the rest of his body was all charred, he felt it mostly in his hands. You couldn’t touch him to comfort him, the skin and flesh would come away at your touch, and he’d scream. You couldn’t do anything for him. There was no aid to give. Maybe he knew we were there, I don’t know. It didn’t do him any good. You couldn’t do anything for him. Then I saw . . . you see . . . I saw that you can’t do anything for anybody. We can’t save each other. Or ourselves.”

“What have you left, then? Isolation and despair! You’re denying brotherhood, Shevek!” the tall girl cried.

“No—no, I’m not. I’m trying to say what I think brotherhood really is. It begins—it begins in shared pain.”

“Then where does it end?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know yet.”

It’s difficult to begin talking about what this passage means to me. I believe this is enough for now.

Kéri examined a gene involved in brain development called neuregulin 1, which previous studies have linked to a slightly increased risk of schizophrenia. Moreover, a single DNA letter mutation that affects how much of the neuregulin 1 protein is made in the brain has been linked to psychosis, poor memory and sensitivity to criticism.

[...]

People with two copies of the neuregulin 1 mutation – about 12 per cent of the study participants – tended to score notably higher on these measures of creativity, compared with other volunteers with one or no copy of the mutation. Those with one copy were also judged to be more creative, on average, than volunteers without the mutation.

Now, this is obviously a very new study, and as such shouldn’t be taken to confirm or refute anything yet. But its findings are so in line with what I’ve naively believed for years that I can’t help but jump on board.

Lately I’ve been reading a gross amount of Terry Pratchett books, as a feel-good kind of escape from the jobhunt, as a retreat from academic reading, and as a study in how to structure a novel. If you’ve ever read a Terry Pratchett book, then you probably see my point already. For those who haven’t, his books are so disjointed, with artful hairpin turns to crack a joke, and so off-the-wall with the subject matter, that the only reasonable reaction for a reader to have is: “This man’s brain is not right.” It simply must be broken somehow.

I believe that.

If you’re a Terry Pratchett fan, it also won’t come as news to you that he was recently diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. From his speech to the Alzheimer’s Research Trust Conference:

I’d like a chance to die like my father did—of cancer, at 86. Remember, I’m speaking as a man with Alzheimer’s, which strips away your living self a bit at a time. Before he went to spend his last two weeks in a hospice he was bustling around the house, fixing things. He talked to us right up to the last few days, knowing who we were and who he was. Right now, I envy him.

It’s a very moving speech, and I recommend reading it in full. But I find this tragic news intriguing because to me it confirms what I’ve always wondered about the man: that his brain operates fundamentally so differently that it could be called pathological.

Now, although I have no scientific background whatsoever, I do have Google Fu, and so I should say that it appears that at present the academic consensus is that there is no link in cause between schizophrenia and Alzheimer’s. From one such paper (available in full!):

This study provides evidence that elderly patients with schizophrenia showing Alzheimer’s disease neuropathology in the brain have increased levels of Aß0. Thus, cognitive impairment in these patients could be related to the dementia-associated amyloid ß-peptide pathogenicity in the brain. However, the larger group of elderly patients with schizophrenia, who were comparably demented but did not evidence Alzheimer’s-related histopathology, did not show significantly elevated levels of amyloid ß-peptide. Analysis of the total brain amyloid ß-peptide content in the present patient cohort showed that the occurrence of cognitive decline in the course of schizophrenia is distinct from the neuropathologic or molecular processes linked to amyloid ß-peptide in Alzheimer’s disease.

From what I’ve read, that basically means that schizophrenia is not considered to be related to Alzheimer’s in terms of cognitive impairment because different factors seem to be causing the impairment in each disease. It helps to read the Wikipedia entry on amyloid ß, which explains:

Amyloid beta (Aβ or Abeta) is a peptide of 39–43 amino acids that appear to be the main constituent of amyloid plaques in the brains of Alzheimer’s disease patients. Similar plaques appear in some variants of Lewy body dementia and in inclusion body myositis, a muscle disease. Aβ also forms aggregates coating cerebral blood vessels in cerebral amyloid angiopathy. These plaques are composed of a tangle of regularly ordered fibrillar aggregates called amyloid fibers, a protein fold shared by other peptides such as prions associated with protein misfolding diseases. Research on laboratory rats suggest that the two-molecule, soluble form of the peptide is a causative agent in the development of Alzheimer’s and that the two-molecule form is the smallest synaptotoxic species of soluble amyloid beta oligomer.

That’s about all I know so far, and I wanted to share. I realize like it might sound like I crudely accept the trade-off of having brilliant people suffer, as long as they keep making pretty things for me to passively enjoy. I don’t want to sign off on anyone else’s pain, but I would like to encourage a mindset of critically assessing what is called bad and what good, at least when it comes to brain function.

I don’t know how all this stuff works, but I guess that’s my point. I don’t even know if I want to understand it one day. At this point I feel I’d be better off just closing my eyes and gritting my teeth when I’m drawing the straw of reincarnation—or of aging, if there’s any difference.

In the time leading up to my recent graduation, I’ve been doing landscaping work on weekends in order to pay the bills. I took a few weekends off to graduate, but I’ll be picking it back up this weekend to keep myself afloat economically, until something bigger and better comes along.

There is something unreal about this type of work. Work of the hands. Moving earth. Touching all different types of life and telling them where to go, where they can best be provided for. Although all of this stuff is unquestionably grounded in the real, it goes—for me—beyond the physical form and instills meaning. There is a reason that the gardener is, as a character, a literary device unto itself, and I’m just beginning to understand that.

A few weeks ago, while working in a housing development, mulching beds, an old man came outside to make some special requests. I obliged, and he came out again and tipped me $20. Later, he yet again came outside, and sat down to watch our crew working. He asked me how long I’ve been doing this type of work. I said, oh, I don’t know, that it’s seasonal work and altogether maybe ten years, just over the summers.

He told me a story about how, when he was “my age,” whatever he took that to be, he had a job working a combine harvester. Made a dollar an hour, I’m pretty sure he claimed. He loved that job. But eventually he found a better job in a glass factory, making three times the money, with benefits, too. He took it without hesitation. He worked the new job for three days, then quit and went back to manning the combine.

“So, I understand why you do the work you do.”

He seemed to think there was great wisdom in there somewhere.

I don’t yet pretend to appreciate the depth of what that man was trying to communicate to me, but flavor of the message is still with me. It’s as though I entered the room during the dying fall, and while I don’t have a prayer of knowing on what chord the piece ended, the overtones haunt me. In the old man’s words I heard the memory of still older words:

My words have ancient beginnings.

This was translated from 言有宗, literally “words have ancestors.” I’ve found myself over the past year or two becoming so open-minded and philosophically promiscuous that I think I’ve crossed back over into conservative territory. I seem to believe that at some remote point in history or prehistory, some person, whether mystic or shaman or prophet or scholar, did indeed figure out the nature of reality, or at least came damn close. The odds that I’ll encounter such an individual in my lifetime, face-to-face, are rather slim, though, so I’ve turned to exegesis.

And landscaping.

In spe (και ημέρες)

The title of this post comes from a short essay by Denise Levertov, in which she discusses the process of nurturing belief through the carrying out of good deeds. At least, that’s what I think it’s about—I only read the first page of it. It was enough to inspire me. I suppose you could say I believed it.

What speaks to me about this philosophy is that I genuinely believe that certain types of work will sustain and satisfy, and others will not. Others can even lead one far astray.

Where I’m at right now is the first time I’ve ever really had to decide how I can best interface with the world. Is it wrong that I don’t really care whether Verizon uses Twitter to provide better customer service? Is it illogical that I’d sooner work for a major marketing firm than canvass for Greenpeace? I have substantial misgivings about even the Peace Corps.

It seems the only option left open to me is graduate study. I want to be a professor. To put it quite simply, I can’t imagine any other job allowing me to keep up the ritual of reading and writing I’ve envisioned for myself as necessary for cultivating a healthy soul. So I’ll spend the next year or so piecing together journal articles with the sundry professors who will hire me a month at a time to edit their work.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll even get my hands dirty one of these days.

It had just started to rain, or was just about to, but I don’t think that’s why I got so confused.

I ended up turning around and walking back home, where I found my pens, and suddenly wanted notebooks to scribble in.

Instead I ate cheese.

At least I’ve graduated now. I have the summer to figure where to live and what to work. The time will be spent fixing what used to function just fine, and building new things when necessary.

That’s probably the crux of it right there: building new things when necessary. Somehow I still wish I had those notebooks, though.

your praises are better than nicotine. if i ever feel a dire need to quit
I’ll just ask you to send me a haiku whenever I want a cigarette

Singularity
Running from the painted cave
To shellac the soul

Tea reminds us of
Bitter sacrifice. And how
Grass is more humble
More than we will ever be
Ah, the taste of memories!

Art thou that thou art?
Maybe thou art that art thou.
You, synthesize me.

func(identity)
global values don’t exist
know thyself through me

OK, the second example is really a tanka, but that’s awesome. Does seem a little like bringing a gun to a knife fight, though.

I recently learned that one of my role models, upon waking, every single day—or so he claims—writes a sonnet. And these sonnets are often pure gold, from what I’ve read. So maybe I’ll make a habit out of fighting in haiku.

I’ll wake in sonnets, dream in ghazals, hunger in villanelle.

Careful what you wish for.

I decided to create a piece that could travel to these schools and would also be of the highest quality. This led to the current one-hour adaptation of the script with three actors.

It is a thrilling distillation of the play and allows for an intense psychological excavation of Macbeths’ consciousness. It is like placing a spotlight on the essential elements of the story, thereby revealing the essence of the play.

No thanks.

In the excerpt below, the character Shevek talks with his hosts on the planet Urras. The twin planets Urras and Anarres have had no communication with each other for more than a century, since the Urrasti insurrectionists were exiled to Anarres. Shevek is the first visitor from Anarres since the exile.

Shevek felt extremely uncomfortable. He got up and went over to the windows. “Your world is very beautiful,” he said. “I wish I could see more. While I must stay inside, will you give me books?”

“Of course, sir! What sort?”

“History, pictures, stories, anything. Maybe they should be books for children. You see, I know very little. We learn about Urras, but mostly about Odo’s times. Before that was eight and one half thousand years! And then since the Settlement of Anarres is a century and a half; since the last ship brought the last settlers—ignorance. We ignore you; you ignore us. You are our history. We are perhaps your future. I want to learn, not to ignore. It is the reason I came. We must know each other. We are not primitive men. Our morality is no longer tribal, it cannot be. Such ignorance is a wrong, from which wrong will arise. So I come to learn.”

That says rather succinctly what I was trying to convey about feeling culturally challenged.

Somehow, I have nothing more to say on the matter right now.

This year, MetalSucks is sponsoring a Protest The Hero tour, and arranged to give away a pair of tickets to each show. I won the Philly tickets. This is fucking awesome.

Below the video for “Sequoia Throne” by Protest The Hero. Revel in the insanity.

First lines of the song:

Did you come here to kill, or did you come here to die?
And did you really think that spaceships would descend from the sky?

\m/

This is pretty much the only course I’ve ever taken where the class size is too large to have an active discussion. It’s in a lecture hall with stadium-style seating, and class participation (and attendance) is measured by clicking a button on an RF remote which is linked to one’s student ID number. The prof periodically throws out questions in his presentation, and by submitting an answer with your remote, you verify that you attended the class. Not exactly foolproof, right? But that’s not the subject of this post.

Let me stress that I know very little about the hard sciences. It’s just something I never really cracked a book on, and it’s a hit to my pride that I’m so weak in this area. Nonetheless, I have skills to avail me!

Today, the professor tossed up this question on the presentation, and we had to vote for what we thought the correct answer:

When an air bag deploys, what actually happens?

1. Air is pushed into the bag from the outside of the car.
2. It’s not actually air, but a liquid that fills the bag.
3. A chemical reaction forms a gas.
4. Gas is already present and expands in the bag.

Now, knowing absolutely nothing about the subject matter, but knowing on pretty solid ground that I’m attending a chemistry class, which answer am I likely to pick? Probably the one that says chemical reaction in it!

This is particularly surprising to me, because the prof’s questions aren’t always so remedial. Take, for example, this answer set to a prompt about why an unopened soda can expands on a hot day:

1. The expansion is due to the decreased solubility of CO₂ (g) in water at higher temp, so the dissolution of CO₂ (g) is exothermic.
2. Energy is always required to dissolve a solute molecule in water, because to do so requires the breaking of hydrogen bonds within the water.
3. The dissolution of a gas into a liquid corresponds to an isothermal compression of the gas.

Not the most taxing exercise, but it’s also not insultingly obvious: all the options have very chemistryish jargon in them.

I’ll add that I’m well aware that the choices in the first example all somehow relate to chemistry, but I’m focused much more here on the reasonableness in the design of the answer choices. I wonder whether being a professor myself will give me more insight on this matter, or just numb me to being disinterested in it myself.

I had my first class of the day cancelled, so I lay out on the grass, in the sun, and examined the veins inside my eyelids. There was a breeze, and big tree near me, and irritating dance music blaring from the quad.

After an hour and a half of lolling, I convinced myself to get up and spend some time in the library.

The chemistry textbook I needed was checked out, so I read for pleasure. And it was grand.

Recalling times when I have been culturally challenged in Taiwan, there is a single very vivid memory which stands out among all the rest. I was hanging out with a friend late at night, just the two of us, and in the midst of our deep ruminations on life and personality and our respective futures, some oblique statement tipped me off to a potential religiosity in my friend. So I asked, “Do you believe in God?” I thought it a reasonable question, one which did not overstep any boundaries in terms of what I may or may not ask.

She suddenly looked very confused, and asked, “Well, which god?” Fortunately I was not so oblivious to her mindset that I thought she was referring to differing conceptions of the Judeo-Christian God. I realized—although I had already known this on some intellectual level, of course—that her religious heritage was such that there are a myriad of gods, and myriad expectations are attached to them. A person might believe in any number of gods, and eschew belief in others, thereby delineating a very individual, albeit substantially contextualized, set of rules for what constitutes acceptable behavior.

How insensitive it was of me to ask! Fortunately she was not at all offended. She reacted similarly yet oppositely to what I might expect from a peer in the U.S. An American college student in the Northeast, when met with a positive answer from “the God question,” might respond with polite disdain, with patronization, like an evolutionist discovering a Creationist. Standard “my god is bigger than your god” fare. I think the motivation for such a reaction, while utterly indefensible, is that the disdaining individual feels more educated. It is difficult to believe that one can subscribe to beliefs of Creationism, when evolutionism and its daughter theories have populated the academic world so completely. In a sense, this person is saying: “Oh, that. You still believe that?”

My friend’s reaction was not too distant from this. She smiled and laughed a bit when she realized where I was coming from with my question. She began to explain, humiliatingly for me, that the Chinese tradition holds many gods, unlike my Western tradition, which has been predominantly monotheistic for a good two millennia now. The disdain, the patting on the head, came from a vector I still believe I perceived in how she presented this knowledge to me: I am a Westerner, come to Taiwan to study—and I still believe in that monotheism stuff?

This incident, so planted in my mind for all my days, took root and spread outwards to touch memories of similar happenings. I was outside, talking to a friend, discussing the learning of languages and how much that brings, how much understanding of humans, both others and the self, it affords one. My memory of the conversation is hazy now, but I believe we were talking in English. My friend asked me whether I knew any websites where he could find free books in English to read. Of course I did! I would link him to Gutenberg.org, so named because of Gutenberg, the German, the man who invented—he built—“he, hundreds of years ago, in the past, he makes a big machine to make—produce—many books.” No, the machine did not write them. Oh, yes, OK, it did write them, but it did not author them. Nevermind. (I would make the same mistakes! But would he?)

I warned my friend that while the works on this website would indeed be free, and in English, they would be quite old. “Why?” Well, because—how on Earth to explain, using rudimentary vocabulary, copyright law and the golem that is the culture of ownership grasping its leash? I knew this was a test I had to pass if I ever wanted to be a teacher, so I tried my best. “And so, most books there, only before 1920 or so.” My friend was still very confused. “Tell me about the old books.” Egg on my face. English was never painted on cloth and hauled across deserts to foreign kingdoms. Its writers were never compelled, at behest of the emperor and under penalty of death, to write, just write, lest the world never know their perfect philosophies.

I know nothing of age nor progress. I am an American, a puling infant amid cultures and worlds thoroughly adolescent. What can I do for you, that you haven’t already tried? What can I say to you, that you haven’t already heard?

I want to rediscover each and every one of you and tell you why you are still great. Long ago, just this morning, America tried to become the archive, the library of Alexandria, for all cultures willing to come. Tell us. We are listening. We may be rapt within our own ignorance, but we are blessed with youth and vigor, too. All our hands are stained with blood; I was just trying to be like you. So invite me to the table tell me a tale. Let’s forget our differences, which never really existed anyway, and have a meal.